The down and dirty on dumping

We pulled into Snowville, Utah’s gas megaplex sighing with relief, and were finally able to fill up the truck and refill the five-gallon emergency tank.

High on our victorious overcoming of the 110-mile backcountry road, we had lunch at the town’s only restaurant, Molly’s Diner.

How they hang it out West.

The diner was decorated with antlers and cowboy arcana, and frozen in the fifties with red leatherette booths and padded swivel stools at a plastic-topped bar. There wasn’t a person over twenty working in the place; these youngsters included the fresh-faced teenage cook and a bouncy waitress who took forever to make us a chocolate malt, which we shared as a reward for surviving our brush with gas-lessness.

I mailed a letter to my writer friend Holly Robinson from the tiny post office, hoping they would postmark it Snowville, Utah, when she finally got the missive.

We pulled onto the road again, this time charting a course on Highway 84, a major thoroughfare, headed for an Idaho state pa…